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- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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“Did that bush give you any particular impression?” asked Anscombe a minute or two later.
“Yes,” I answered, “it gave me the impression that we might catch fever there. See the mist that lies over it,” and turning in my saddle I pointed with the rifle in my hand to what looked like a mass of cotton wool over which, without permeating it, hung the last red glow of sunset, producing a curious and indeed rather unearthly effect. “I expect that thousands of years ago there was a lake yonder, which is why trees grow so big in the rich soil.”
“You are curiously mundane, Quatermain,” he answered. “I ask you of spiritual impressions and you dilate to me of geological formations and the growth of timber. You felt nothing in the spiritual line?”
“I felt nothing except a chill,” I answered, for I was tired and hungry. “What the devil are you driving at?”
“Have you got that flask of Hollands about you, Quatermain?”
“Oh! those are the spirits you are referring to,” I remarked with sarcasm as I handed it to him.
He took a good pull and replied—
“Not at all, except in the sense that bad spirits require good spirits to correct them, as the Bible teaches. To come to facts,” he added in a changed voice, “I have never been in a place that depressed me more than that thrice accursed patch of bush.”
“Why did it depress you?” I asked, studying him as well as I could in the fading light. To tell the truth I feared lest he had knocked his head when the wildebeeste upset him, and was suffering from delayed concussion.
“Can’t tell you, Quatermain. I don’t look like a criminal, do I? Well, I entered those trees feeling a fairly honest man, and I came out of them feeling like a murderer. It was as though something terrible had happened to me there; it was as though I had killed someone there. Ugh!” and he shivered and took another pull at the Hollands.
“What bosh!” I said. “Besides, even if it were to come true, I am sorry to say I’ve killed lots of men in the way of business and they don’t bother me overmuch.”
“Did you ever kill one to win a woman?”
“Certainly not. Why, that would be murder. How can you ask me such a thing? But I have killed several to win cattle,” I reflected aloud, remembering my expedition with Saduko against the chief Bangu, and some other incidents in my career.
“I appreciate the difference, Quatermain. If you kill for cows, it is justifiable homicide; if you kill for women, it is murder.”
“Yes,” I replied, “that is how it seems to work out in Africa. You see, women are higher in the scale of creation than cows, therefore crimes committed for their sake are enormously greater than those committed for cows, which just makes the difference between justifiable homicide and murder.”
“Good lord! what an argument,” he exclaimed and relapsed into silence. Had he been accustomed to natives and their ways he would have understood the point much better than he did, though I admit it is difficult to explain.
In due course we reached the wagon without further trouble. While we were shielding our pipes after an excellent supper I asked Anscombe his impressions of Mr. Marnham.
“Queer cove, I think,” he answered. “Been a gentleman, too, and still keeps the manners, which isn’t strange if he is one of the Marnhams, for they are a good family. I wonder he mentioned having served with my father.”
“It slipped out of him. Men who live a lot alone are apt to be surprised into saying things they regret afterwards, as I noticed he did. But why do you wonder?”
“Because as it happens, although I have only just recalled it, my father used to tell some story about a man named Marnham in his regiment. I can’t remember the details, but it had to do with cards when high stakes were being played for, and with the striking of a superior officer in the quarrel that ensued, as a result of which the striker was requested to send in his papers.”
“It may not have been the same man.”
“Perhaps not, for I believe that more than one Marnham served in that regiment. But I remember my father saying, by way of excuse for the person concerned, that he had a most ungovernable temper. I think he added, that he left the country and took service in some army on the Continent. I should rather like to clear the thing up.”
“It isn’t probable that you will, for even if you should ever meet this Marnham again, I fancy you would find he held his tongue about his acquaintance with your father.”
“I wonder what Miss Heda is like,” went on Anscombe after a pause. “I am curious to see a girl who designs a house on the model of an ancient ruin.”
“Well, you won’t, for she’s away somewhere. Besides we are looking for buffalo, not girls, which is a good thing as they are less dangerous.”
I spoke thus decisively because I had taken a dislike to Mr. Marnham and everything to do with him, and did not wish to encourage the idea of further meetings.
“No, never, I suppose. And yet I feel as though I were certainly destined to see that accursed yellow-wood swamp again.”
“Nonsense,” I replied as I rose to turn in. Ah! if I had but known!
THE HUNTERS HUNTED
While I was taking off my boots I heard a noise of jabbering in some native tongue which I took to be Sisutu, and not wishing to go to the trouble of putting them on again, called to the driver of the wagon to find out what it was. This man was a Cape Colony Kaffir, a Fingo I think, with a touch of Hottentot in him. He was an excellent driver, indeed I do not think I have ever seen a better, and by no means a bad shot. Among Europeans he rejoiced in the name of Footsack, a Boer Dutch term which is generally addressed to troublesome dogs and means “Get out.” To tell the truth, had I been his master he would have got out, as I suspected him of drinking, and generally did not altogether trust him. Anscombe, however, was fond of him because he had shown courage in some hunting adventure in Matabeleland, I think it was at the shooting of that very dark-coloured lion whose skin had been the means of making us acquainted nearly two years before. Indeed he said that on this occasion Footsack had saved his life, though from all that I could gather I do not think this was quite the case. Also the man, who had been on many hunting trips with sportsmen, could talk Dutch well and English enough to make himself understood, and therefore was useful.
He went as I bade him, and coming back presently, told me that a party of Basutos, about thirty in number, who were returning from Kimberley, where they had been at work in the mines, under the leadership of a Bastard named Karl, asked leave to camp by the wagon for the night, as they were afraid to go on to “Tampel” in the dark.
At first I could not make out what “Tampel” was, as it did not sound like a native name. Then I remembered that Mr. Marnham had spoken of his house as being called the Temple, of which, of course, Tampel was a corruption; also that he said he and his partner were labour agents.
“Why are they afraid?” I asked.
“Because, Baas, they say that they must go through a wood in a swamp, which they think is haunted by spooks, and they much afraid of spooks;” that is of ghosts.
“What spooks?” I asked.
“Don’t know, Baas. They say spook of some one who has been killed.”
“Rubbish,” I replied. “Tell them to go and catch the spook; we don’t want a lot of noisy fellows howling chanties here all night.”
Then it was that Anscombe broke in in his humorous, rather drawling voice.
“How can you be so hard-hearted, Quatermain? After the supernatural terror which, as I told you, I experienced in that very place, I wouldn’t condemn a kicking mule to go through it in this darkness. Let the poor devils stay; I daresay they are tired.”
So I gave in, and presently saw their fires beginning to burn through the end canvas of the wagon which was unlaced because the night was hot. Also later on I woke up, about midnight I think, and heard voices talking, one of which I reflected sleepily, sounded very like that of Footsack.
Waking very early, as is my habit, I peeped out of the wagon, and through the morning mist perceived Footsack in converse with a particularly villainous-looking person. I at once concluded this must be Karl, evidently a Bastard compounded of about fifteen parts of various native bloods to one of white, who, to add to his attractions, was deeply scarred with smallpox and possessed a really alarming squint. It seemed to me that Footsack handed to this man something that looked suspiciously like a bottle of squareface gin wrapped up in dried grass, and that the man handed back to Footsack some small object which he put in his mouth.
Now, I wondered to myself, what is there of value that one who does not eat sweets would stow away in his mouth. Gold coin perhaps, or a quid of tobacco, or a stone. Gold was too much to pay for a bottle of gin, tobacco was too little, but how about the stone? What stone? Who wanted stones? Then suddenly I remembered that these people were said to come from Kimberley, and whistled to myself. Still I did nothing, principally because the mist was still so dense that although I could see the men’s faces, I could not clearly see the articles which they passed to each other about two feet lower, where it still lay very thickly, and to bring any accusation against a native which he can prove to be false is apt to destroy authority. So I held my tongue and waited my chance. It did not come at once, for before I was dressed those Basutos had departed together with their leader Karl, for now that the sun was up they no longer feared the haunted bush.
It came later, thus: We were trekking along between the thorns upon a level and easy track which enabled the driver Footsack to sit upon the “voorkisse” or driving box of the wagon, leaving the lad who is called the voorlooper to lead the oxen. Anscombe was riding parallel to the wagon in the hope of killing some guineafowl for the pot (though a very poor shot with a rifle he was good with a shot-gun). I, who did not care for this small game, was seated smoking by the side of Footsack who, I noted, smelt of gin and generally showed signs of dissipation. Suddenly I said to him—
“Show me that diamond which the Bastard Karl gave you this morning in payment for the bottle of your master’s drink.”
It was a bow drawn at a venture, but the effect of the shot was remarkable. Had I not caught it, the long bamboo whip Footsack held would have fallen to the ground, while he collapsed in his seat like a man who has received a bullet in his stomach.
“Baas,” he gasped, “Baas, how did you know?”
“I knew,” I replied grandly, “in the same way that I know everything. Show me the diamond.”
“Baas,” he said, “it was not the Baas Anscombe’s gin, it was some I bought in Pilgrim’s Rest.”
“I have counted the bottles in the case and know very well whose gin it was,” I replied ambiguously, for the reason that I had done nothing of the sort. “Show me the diamond.”
Footsack fumbled about his person, his hair, his waistcoat pockets and even his moocha, and ultimately from somewhere produced a stone which he handed to me. I looked at it, and from the purity of colour and size, judged it to be a diamond worth ÂŁ200, or possibly more. After careful examination I put it into my pocket, saying,
“This is the price of your master’s gin and therefore belongs to him as much as it does to anybody. Now if you want to keep out of trouble, tell me—whence came it into the hands of that man, Karl?”
“Baas,” replied Footsack, trembling all over, “how do I know? He and the rest have been working at the mines; I suppose he found it there.”
“Indeed! And did he find others of the same sort?”
“I think so,
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